


Favours

by PeachesandBones



Category: Star Trek: Mirror Universe, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 06:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachesandBones/pseuds/PeachesandBones
Summary: McCoy is building up quite a debt with Scott.





	Favours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [periferal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/periferal/gifts).



> I was thrilled to get your assignment, because I had already started the work as a treat. I hope you enjoy it!

The first time the doctor comes to him, the favour isn’t too big.

“Mister Scott,” he asks, baby blues glinting mischievously in the dim light of engineering. He’s actually bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I have a favour to ask.”

“What?” Montgomery barks back. McCoy isn’t put off in the slightest.

“I want a dagger, but instead of steel or whatever Uhura uses, I’d like the blade to be made from a metal sponge. The type they use for prosthetics.”

“You’ll be sacrificin’ a clean cut by usin’ a metal foam to make incisions.” Scott doesn’t know why he opens his mouth. It’s none of his business what stupid ideas the doctor has.

But McCoy simply smiles, an impish glee playing around the corners of his lips.

“That’s part of the plan, Scott.”

 

Initially the requests are easy enough, and they’re worth pursuing to keep on the good side of the ship’s physician. He knows that his creations will be used for enhanced interrogation, and like all members of The Empire, he simply does his duty and hopes that he never sees the business end of his work. Sickbay is particularly brutal and Scott isn’t sure if the chicken or the egg came first, but McCoy is so deceptively charming that he has to fight not to like the man. He’s heard tales of the doctor’s mercurial nature, knows that he can start screaming at the tip of a hat. But he always comes to engineering with a slow, confidant smiles that seems to be reserved for him, eyes twinkling with a secret that only they know. And perhaps Montgomery likes being seen as useful, not a mere grease monkey toiling in the bowels of the ship. He begins to look forward to these visits, starts counting the days until he once again hears McCoy’s distinctive gate echoing against the duranium plating.

 

“Mister Scott. I have a proposition for you.” Scott has lost track of how many favours he’s done the doctor, but they have a routine now.

McCoy isn’t following it.

Scott eyes him wearily.

“Nanobots. Ones we can put in the bloodstream.”

Scott eyes him with disbelief.

“I’m an aerospace engineer, doctor. Not a biomedical one. You’ll be much better off askin’ someone in the science department.” McCoy frowns, eyes so hard they remind Montgomery of belly flopping into the North Sea as a lad, and he remembers the stories he’s heard about the doctor’s anger.  
“I don’t want the science department involved.” Of course, because then _Spock_ would be involved, and even though no one knew how that particular feud had been started, it had been a cornerstone of the ship’s gossip mill for three years.

“I think you’re sharp enough to help me.” The doctor says, his manner less pleasant, his voice tinged with an edge of warning. Scott takes a moment to size up the doctor. He knows that, purely based on strength, he could take McCoy down and keep him there. He could start over with a new doctor, avoid doing any special favours that would wind up costing his time and the ship’s resources, avoid getting caught up in a partnership he might pay for later if McCoy made the wrong enemies.

“I think yer gettin' into quite a bit of debt with me.” Scott says instead.

“Oh?” McCoy looks amused, that flirtatious twinkle returning to his eyes. “And how do you suppose I repay that debt?”

“I want to watch.” 

 

The first person winds up on McCoy’s biobed three days later. Scott doesn’t know him. He’s a brown-haired lad with freckles dotting his smooth face, struggling against the biobed restraints and looking defiantly at the both of them. His breath comes out of his nose in short puffs, his brow furrowing with rage. Scott’s apprehension fills him, chokes him as his excitement electrifies him and makes his mouth go dry.

McCoy, wearing no more protective gear than goggles and a face mask, sighs.

“Sulu thinks this one’s got the key to some plot against Kirk.”

“So, we’re interrogating him for information?” Scott asks, looking between the gagged man and McCoy expectantly. His companion shrugs.

“Supposedly. I don’t think he’ll have much to offer us. But he’ll bleed like the rest.” The man shuts his eyes and he struggles more earnestly, trying to scream through the gag.

McCoy moves slowly, like he’s creating an art piece. He makes incision after incision along muscle groups that Scott can’t name. The crew member cries out and violently rocks against his bonds, trying to disrupt the pattern and flow. McCoy never loses his patience, just sits and waits for him to calm down, to lose his strength, to bleed out just a little too much. Despite all the tools he’s had Scott work on, he uses none of them. In fact, he doesn’t use any tool created after the 20th century. His blades and his cauterizer are all he needs. The man’s blood floods the biobed and drips onto the floor, and Montgomery pictures the muscles and tendons cut open beneath, sometimes sees an ivory flash when McCoy goes particularly deep. His screams are muffled but the notes of pain and desperation are clear and sweet, contrasting with the heady scent of rust and iron that Scott has almost ceased to notice. He’s harder than he can ever remember being.

“Huh, that’s interesting.” McCoy muses, uses his scalpel to open up the skin along the inside of the forearm.

“What is?” Scott asks breathlessly.

“He has a palmaris longus.”

Scott whirls McCoy around, narrowly misses the scalpel’s blade as the doctor reflexively jerks it up. He rips the face mask off, taking the eyeglasses with it, and kisses the doctor with desperation, pushing him against the biobed. He ruts hard into the doctor’s lithe frame, the sharp edges of his hips and the friction of their pants just enough to get him where he needs to be. McCoy is kissing back, thrusting back, giving everything back in equal parts, and they both come like teenage boys having an illicit tryst.

While they catch their breath, he notices that everything is covered in blood after their brief interlude. McCoy, who had somehow managed to avoid soiling his clothing before hand, finds his pants damp and sticky with semen and blood. Scott’s shoes are shiny, his hands red, and he has to fight the urge to lick them clean. The doctor dispassionately glances at the biobed.

“Looks like he bled out.”

 

They retreat to McCoy’s quarters and clean themselves up, and then they have sex. Scott thinks he can still smell the blood, mingled with the scent of cedarwood and antiseptic. His mind pictures McCoy, surgeon’s fingers steady and true, as he cuts exactly where he wants to, applies the exact amount of pressure.

After, McCoy tells him that he reserves the toys Scott has made for the individuals that Kirk decides need ‘enhanced interrogation’.

“That man had nothing. Sulu just needed a scapegoat to hide his own bid for the chair. I can keep people alive for days when necessary. The poor souls who get caught up in the crossfire? I let them die quickly. I’m a humanitarian.”

Scott thinks that is one of the kindest things he has ever heard.

 

They get into a routine of late nights in sickbay, working and fucking, and ignoring each other during the day. McCoy lets him watch the middle stages of enhanced interrogations, right after sickbay betting pool has collected on the date of confession but before they start watching to collect on the time of death. He gets to see the effects of various non-communicable biological weapons, a few chemical agents, and a lot of straight electrical and mechanical torture. He hears through the gossip mill that McCoy’s interrogations are lasting longer, that he’s spending more time with them, and Scott wonders if he’s doing this for him, thinks he might love the doctor. He has that preternatural spring in his step that he had with his sixth year girlfriend, the same butterflies that made him nauseous with giddiness. He gets hard when he smells the familiar cedarwood aftershave lingering in the hallways, when he watches the doctor manipulate pens between those long, strong fingers at mission briefings.

Then, there’s a malfunction in the transporter, and they wind up on an _Enterprise_ without sashes, that has a Spock with no goatee but an endless amount of patience. Kirk is like a raging bull, pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath about sabotage and agony booths. Uhura rolls her eyes behind his back - it’s a paranoia that the bridge crew is familiar with.

“This has to be Spock’s doing.” Kirk mutters. “He could have modified the transporter. He’s been after the chair since I assassinated Pike. Never trust a half-breed.” Even Leonard thinks his hypothesis is ridiculous, and he gives a half smile to Scott, who can’t help but return it.

Kirk notices.

The Spock of this other world figures it out, and the four of them are shoved back into the transporter via threat of phaser. Soon they are back in their correct uniforms, wandering down the same hallowed corridors, familiar weapons hidden in secret pockets.

 

Kirk gets more paranoid, and more crewmen wind up on McCoy’s table. Scott is initially excited, visions of having sex in pools of blood and gore dancing across his vision. The reality is different. The doctor is stressed, the entire medical department so overworked that they don’t bother betting anymore. The confessions that are dragged out of the poor devils are lies; no one can come up with a plausible story of how they were part of a scheme to transport Kirk and his officers to a parallel universe. So Kirk orders more enhanced interrogations, and soon half of security is gone and medical is beginning to suffer losses as well. Even Sulu loses his veneer of coolness as he scrambles to placate Kirk’s higher security standards with fewer men.

Scott is constantly repairing equipment in sickbay, and is there the fateful day when McCoy finally snaps.

“Your work is sub par, Bones.” Kirk looks disdainfully between the doctor and the crew member lying dead on the table. “You never bring me anything reliable.”

“Because there is nothing reliable to give!” Leonard growls through his mask, blood dripping from his hands. It’s a testament to how busy the department is that no one pauses or looks towards them. “No one on this ship knows how that happened, Jim. No one was responsible for altering time and space in some fucked up assassination plot. But with half of the ship being airlocked, it’s leaving you pretty vulnerable.” Kirk eyes him, eagle sharp, tenses his biceps as he places his hands on the bloody biobed and leans over the body to stare at McCoy intently.

Scott doesn’t hear what he murmurs, but he knows that it is nothing good.

For a moment, the two men just stare at each other, blood coagulating on the floor as the medical team bustles around them and Scott tries not to stare as he works. Then, Kirk straightens up and smirks at the doctor. He walks over to the sink and scrubs his hands so quickly that Scott knows there will be lines of dried blood around his finger nails when he goes back to the bridge.

On his way out, Kirk catches Scott’s eye and nods.

 

Using the shared bathroom, he sneaks into Leonard’ quarters in the early hours of the morning, finding the doctor awake and frazzled at his computer, staring at the screen blankly. Scott comes up behind him and puts his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, squeezing and rubbing the knots away.

“You need to finish those nanobots.”

“They’ll be done in a few weeks.” He promises.

“No, they need to be done next week.” Panic flirts at the edge of his voice, and Scott frowns.

“I don’t have the time, with sickbay constantly needing repairs.” He protests.

“Make the time.” Shrugging Scott’s hands off of his shoulders, Leonard stands up to face him, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than he has ever seen. “This isn’t negotiable. It has to be done.” They lock eyes, and there’s a dampness to them that Montgomery hasn’t seen before that sets him on edge.

“Alright.” He agrees. “They’ll be done by next week.”

 

Scott rushes through repairs and uses every spare second he has, only allowing himself to sleep for three hours a night. He’s not a software engineer, but he can’t risk bringing down Spock’s wrath by asking someone from the Sciences department, so he tries to remember the courses he had taken in school and hopes it’s good enough. By the time Friday - or what would be Friday on Earth- rolls around, his hands shake and he knows he’s lost some weight but the task is done and he’s kept his promise. He hands the vial of nanobots suspended in saline solution to the doctor, and to his surprise Leonard isn’t excited. He just looks relieved.

“Thank you.” He says solemnly, and clenches his hand around the vial with far more strength than he needs.

“Be careful you don’t break that, eh?” Scott smiles. McCoy doesn’t.

 

“Scott to sickbay immediately.” Chapel’s voice comes over the intercom. He sighs and quickly washes the grease and fluid off of his hands, and steps into the turbolift.

When he arrives, he’s surprised to see Kirk again at the biobed next to a terse Doctor McCoy. Kirk grins wolfishly at him, and Leonard avoids his gaze. The tension is thick, and he doesn’t know why.

“Mister Scott.” Kirk greets him warmly, a little too excitedly. “Bones is about to try out your nanobots. I thought that you’d like to be present.” McCoy doesn’t look like he agrees.

Scott looks at the table and recognizes Kyle, the transporter chief. If he’s honest with himself, he’s surprised that Kyle has been able to stave off Kirk’s attention for as long as he has. He’s been temporarily gagged, which Scott thinks might actually be a benefit to him. Kyle talks too much, is too earnest with his words. 

“I’d be glad to see how it goes.” He replies. Jim’s grin gets wider.

Chapel stands at the edge of the biobed with hypospray in hand, and McCoy stands at the computer, opening up the software.

“The bots are online.” He announces. Chapel approaches Kyle and injects the saline/nanobot suspension into his neck. McCoy is silent.

What’s worse is that Kyle is silent. The room is awash in tension for a good 30 seconds until Kirk barks out “What are we waiting for?” McCoy swallows.

“The nanobots aren’t responding.” Kirk frowns.

“Scott, see if you can help him.” He goes to the computer, sees that McCoy’s hands are shaking as he takes over the keyboard.

Nothing works. He resets the signal, resets the computer, turns the power up, turns down the power power, changes to a different frequency. None of the nanobots are responsive, which means that, in addition to being useless, he won’t be able to retrieve them.

Kirk looks delighted.

 

He returns to engineering to replace the panels on the jeffery tube, and then heads to McCoy’s quarters and waits. Something is happening that he doesn’t understand, but McCoy has to tell him. In The Empire, ignorance is rarely bliss.

He waits.

And waits.

When McCoy finally arrives he smiles, a small, bittersweet one that the Scott has never seen on him before.

“I hoped you’d be here.” 

“At least _that_ went right today.” Scott bristles. Leonard shrugs, suddenly all loose limbs and carefree sways.

“It doesn’t matter. Saurian brandy?” He’s already en route to fetch the tumblers and bottle, turning his back on Scott as he pours. The gesture softens the irritation Scott feels. To turn your back on someone when there were no witnesses… it was a testament to the trust they had built.

McCoy gives him a tumbler, and and they both gulp the drinks down in one swallow.

“This is good stuff.” Scott sighs happily. I think we need it after-” And Leonard is on him, licking his neck and pushing him into the bed. He quickly undoes Scott’s pants, surgeon’s fingers deftly pushing down his underwear and pants, and he allows himself to be pushed back onto the mattress. Leonard doesn’t waste time, swallows his cock in an oral swan dive, and Scott can almost hear the blood run south as he hardens.

The blow job feels more like an attack. Every sensitive spot is teased and assaulted, the rhythm is exactly what Scott likes, the suction makes him clench his fists into the sheets. He’s pushed over the edge when he sees those impossibly blue eyes, ice cold with a hunger he hasn’t seen since they came back from the mirror universe. When he comes, Leonard swallows him down, gives a final suck to his softening penis that has him gasping with an uncomfortable pleasure. He gives himself a moment to catch his breath, and he finally sits up Scott chuckles, his limbs sluggish and uncooperative in the afterglow.

“I didn’t expect that tonight. Thought we’d both be too tired.” He tries to stand, to pull up his pants, but the exhaustion must have caught up with him because suddenly nothing is working, and all he wants to do is close his eyes.

“Here.” McCoy grabs an arm and helps lift him up, zips his pants back up, and suddenly they’re walking towards the connecting bathroom.

“Where’re we goin’?” Scott asks, and his tongue is uncooperative and he’s stumbling as he tries to walk. McCoy ignores him, passes through the bathroom straight to Scott’s bed, and gently leads him to sit.

“I can’t let him.” The doctor’s voice comes out low, trembling. “He wants you to be next, Scottie. Thinks you must have had some reason for tampering with the transporter, for sending us to that odd place. But I know you don’t know. And even if you did…” Scott doesn’t have the strength to sit up anymore, his muscles go lax and he flops backwards into his bed. McCoy grabs his shoulders, drags his head to the pillow and lays out his limbs.

“I’m being kind, Scottie.” He can’t keep his eyes open any longer, but he feels it when McCoy brushes around his hairline, strokes his cheek. “I didn’t think it would end up this way. All of my future plans involved you, I didn’t think you’d ever warrant Kirk’s wrath. I wish it could be different.” His voice becomes dreamier, as if he were a thousand miles away rather than perched next to him on the bed. “But nothing ever works out the way you want it to.” The light caresses feel as though they’re being given to someone else, someone whose name is on the tip of his tongue but that he can’t remember. “I was told by an instructor once that the greatest act of love you can perform is to prevent someone’s suffering before they even know it’s coming. That’s not how I envisioned love being. But maybe he had a point. What good is love if it can’t offer you a little insurance against the world?”

McCoy continues to ramble on, his voice eventually becoming indiscriminate vibrations to Scott’s ears. As he slips into unconscious, he wishes he could smile. After all, how many people could truly claim that they had been loved?


End file.
